


The WIP Graveyard

by blackkat



Category: Grimm (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Saiyuki, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Torchwood, Yami No Matsuei
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Humor, M/M, Romance, Snippets, Time Travel Fix-It, WIPs that will likely never be finished
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-01
Updated: 2013-10-01
Packaged: 2017-12-28 03:24:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 10,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/987091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Welcome to the wonderful world of my magpie imagination! Everything here was started, considered, and then eventually abandoned to languish in the dusty corners of a folder somewhere. It's all up for adoption, so just message me if you're interested. You'll also find several fandoms here, though Torchwood has the majority. Just check the headers for warnings, pairings, fandoms, etc.</p><p>Best,</p><p>Kat</p><p> </p><p>Chapter premise: Tosh gets the chance to go back in time and try everything again.</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. Torchwood: Tosh-centric

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the wonderful world of my magpie imagination! Everything here was started, considered, and then eventually abandoned to languish in the dusty corners of a folder somewhere. It's all up for adoption, so just message me if you're interested. You'll also find several fandoms here, though Torchwood has the majority. Just check the headers for warnings, pairings, fandoms, etc.
> 
> Best,
> 
> Kat
> 
>  
> 
> Chapter premise: Tosh gets the chance to go back in time and try everything again.

Tosh's mother always told her that the spirits of her family would watch over her in her life, and Tosh had believed it. She had trusted in something with no scientific proof and let herself be comforted by the thought, even though it was probably a childish, naive notion.

But if this is what that "watching over" was like, she probably shouldn't have put quite so much faith in it.

It makes sense that, even after death, she would focus on Torchwood, the only real family she's in contact with - and they certainly  _need_ guidance more than anyone else she knows, without a doubt. Jack is very strong, but deceptively so - if hit at just the right angle, Tosh is sure he'll shatter like glass. Gwen is out of her depth, more than the rest of them and even after so long working for Torchwood. And Ianto...

Oh, Ianto.

Tosh is dead, and it's...not quite what she had expected, when she'd thought of the inevitable day when Torchwood would kill her. There's a vagueness to everything, a sort of fog all around her. She can see the others, can follow them without eyes and hear them without ears and wrap herself around them without arms, but it's always with a laconic kind of concern when she's never, ever been a laconic sort of person. Even focusing on them takes far more effort than it should, and there's no way she can really interfere in  _anything._

It would be maddening, were she capable of feeling frustration.

As it is, if this is how her ancestors have always watched over her, Tosh is afraid that she trusted them a bit too much. There's nothing she can  _do,_ no way she can connect with her team even when they're hurting or depressed or  _dying,_ and she's never hated anything quite so much.

 _That_ emotion makes it through the fog of apathy, at least.

There's a sort of...collective consciousness to this existence, a shared omnipotence and omnipresence, so when the 456 come, Tosh knows immediately. It's the sort of vast threat that can make her stir herself even through the fog, so she's watching, faintly angry when she should really be feeling rage, when the Hub is destroyed.

She's watching when the sad remnants of her team gather at Thames House.

She's listening when the 456 make their threat, and she can feel it when the invisible poison starts to work its way through her team's lungs.

 _No,_ she thinks, and the horror cuts through the fog like a knife as Ianto falls.  _No, no, this isn't right. No._

_No._

But all the denial in the world means nothing when Ianto's heart—the brave, strong heart that has always felt so much, has healed itself so bravely after the tragedy of Torchwood One and Lisa's death—begins to falter.

 _Ianto,_ Tosh tries to cry, but it's soundless.  _Don't die!_ She wants to shake him like Jack is doing, wants to wrap him in her arms and pull all of the poison right out of his body, wants to do  _anything_ to keep him from being lost in this vast, apathetic fog that's ensnared her so tightly, because Ianto is anything but apathetic. He's a friend and a surrogate brother and Batman's Alfred with a Glock and pet pteranadon, and Tosh loves all of her team, loves Jack and loved Owen and even loves Gwen, but Ianto is special and has been ever since he first started.

 _No,_ she thinks again, and this time it reverberates through the nothingness of the collective world, through all of the many, many souls who have died and stayed...here, wherever that is, because they couldn't bear to move on and leave their loved ones alive.

Ianto takes a final, ragged breath and doesn't breathe again, and Tosh screams in fury and grief and maddening, aching impotency. She rages against the dim grey lassitude, hurls herself against it full-force, and it cracks.

It cracks right down the middle.

Tosh blinks a bit, blinded by the unexpected sunlight that catches her fully in the face, and raises her head.

She's standing in the middle of the sidewalk outside a neat, sterile apartment building that remains a dull grey, even in one of Cardiff's lovelier afternoons, and there are a few other people on the street, though they're not giving her any strange looks yet. From where she's standing, she can just see Ianto, alive and lovely and as melancholic as some tragic Byronic hero, sitting out on his balcony on the fifth floor.

Her breath catches in her throat, and her grip tightens on the bakery bag in her hand, because she  _remembers this._ It happened about a week after the Cyberwoman incident, eight days into Ianto's suspension. She'd gathered her courage and gone to visit him, trying to show she didn't have any hard feelings and that she regretted what he'd gone through, but the day had ended in disaster. Tosh had said something badly, phrased a statement wrong, and Ianto had overreacted. He'd shouted at her, she'd fled like a coward, and it had taken them until the disastrous trip to Brynblaidd to settle into a tentative friendship once more.

But—

This isn't a dream. Tosh was dead and now she's not, and this is—

"Thank you," she whispers to whatever higher power might be listening, because Tosh has never not appreciated the second chances she's been given—not with Jack and UNIT, not with Owen and the glove, and certainly not now. Even if this—whatever it is—isn't permanent, doesn't last more than an hour or two, Tosh isn't going to waste it.


	2. Torchwood: Jack/Ianto AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack is Rhiannon's childhood friend, and Ianto has been in love with him for years. (Or, five times Jack walked away, and one time he stayed.)

**1.**

They're in the meadow behind their school the first time it happens, still carrying their book bags and giddy with the freedom of the summer holidays. Ianto trails after the older children, far more weighted down by his many books and Rhiannon's bag. Owen and Rhiannon run ahead, heading for the middle of the field, and Jack makes to follow them, only to pause and shift his gaze to something Ianto hadn't noticed.

"Someday," Jack says, looking up at the contrail drifting lazily through the sky, and the distant aeroplane making it, "that's going to be me. I'm going to fly around the whole world and never have to land at all."

Ianto is four years younger than him, ten to Jack's fourteen, but eminently more sensible all the same. "That would be hard," he points out, dropping Rhiannon's bag with a soft huff of relief. "Why not just land? You can get fuel and food and stuff. And then you can see me." Because Jack is bright and bold and beautiful, the most important thing in Ianto's world, and Ianto worships him with painful transparency.

Not that Jack notices, because Jack never notices people so far beneath his range of interests. He has even less concern for those so firmly grounded in reality, so distressingly practical, as Ianto already is. He wants friends who hear his dreams and laugh along with him, who skive off the last half of their classes to go down to the shops and buy model planes with him. Friends who cheer him on, or shoot him down with a kind of envy on their faces that is even better than support. Friends who bring their new remote-controlled plane and hide it in their locker all day long, just to have quicker access when the final bell rings and they're done with school.

Friends who ignore the fact that Jack doesn't have parents, that his guardian is never home and he's always on his own, and don't ask questions he doesn't want to answer.

Ianto isn't one of those friends. He's the one who knows everything about a subject and can point out all the flaws in a plan, who catches them when they shouldn't be caught and tags along when he isn't wanted. He's Rhiannon's little brother, so they have to be at least a little nice or risk her wrath, but he's her  _little brother_  and she's saddled with him while their father works and their mother is in Providence Park after her latest bout of suicidal depression. It isn't as much protection from being left behind as it probably should be.

Ianto also asks the questions no one else will. Nobody thanks him for it, least of all Jack.

And Jack, at fourteen, is far too smart to be lectured by Rhiannon's little brother. He ignores Ianto and runs after Owen and Rhiannon and their new remote-control plane, laughing and happy and carefree.

He dreams of being a pilot, of flying off to distant places and meeting strange people.

Ianto, all of ten, already knows that Jack will do it. He'll be a pilot and go to those places and meet those people. They'll love him, and he'll love them, because everyone loves Jack and Jack loves everyone.

Maybe not his friend's younger brother, but everyone else, at least.

Ianto might only be ten years old, but that thought is already enough to make something funny in his chest ache and throb. He presses his hand against it, feels the steady flutter of his own heartbeat, and then picks up Rhiannon's bag.

He follows Jack, because he always follows Jack, even if Jack has never once looked back and seen him there.

He'll keep on doing it, too, right up until the day he dies.

That much he's sure of.

* * *

**2.**

The second time, Ianto has just turned fifteen, and Jack is nineteen and invincible and gorgeous and knows everything.

He's also leaving, and that hurts so much Ianto can hardly breathe for the pain.

Ianto spends the week before Jack's departure to flight school skulking around the house and schoolyard, avoiding everywhere he normally frequents in case Jack comes looking for him in order to say goodbye. At fifteen, Ianto's crush is no more manageable than it was at ten, and the five years in between have only strengthened it. Not that Jack has noticed.

(He never notices those so far beneath his level of interest, Ianto thinks bitterly.)

The adoration is still painful, and painfully obvious to everyone but Jack. Rhiannon has started giving him pitying looks and careful offers of "talking," though Ianto usually flees quickly after either. Owen just taunts him, same as ever, though he's not quite cruel enough to let Jack overhear anything. He's more like an older brother, hiding Ianto's secrets while teasing him mercilessly about them. Ianto might mind more, except that Owen was the one to find him and take him to the hospital after he broke his leg.

(He'd told Rhiannon that Tad was pushing him on the swings, and Tad let go too soon. She told him he hadn't held on tight enough, before Owen barreled in and interrupted the odd double conversation they were having.

Ianto's never been able to tell of Owen knows the truth, though. He partway suspects that he understands. Owen knows what drunken parents are like, because they're probably the most fucked-up bunch of friends in Cardiff.)

But Jack is leaving, and there's little chance he'll ever come back once he does, because who would want to come here when the world is at their fingertips? What on earth does Jack have to draw him back here?

Nothing, of course.

But oh, how Ianto wishes that he could be something.

Finally, the day before Jack is scheduled to leave, Ianto gathers himself and waits for Jack on the corner by the bank (because Wednesdays are when his guardian's weekly cheques come, and Jack always deposits them immediately). Perhaps it's cowardly, especially when Jack is going to have dinner at Ianto's house tonight, but he won't be able to face Jack on any terms but his own. When Rhiannon is there, when Owen and Suzie and everyone else is crowded around and calling out congratulations, Ianto will lose his nerve.

And he can't, not today, when this is his last chance to say anything at all before Jack is gone.

There's no time for second thoughts. Jack is already sweeping down the street, nearly strutting, a grin on his face. It takes Ianto's breath away to see him so happy, and it hurts to know that this happiness comes only from the fact that he's leaving.

But Ianto can't be bitter, not really. Jack is following his dream.

And Ianto is just the kind of hopeless fool to love him for it.

Feeling painfully awkward, almost to the point of mortification, Ianto steps away from the wall of the bank and reaches out to snag Jack's coat. Jack turns—not surprised, never surprised by anything Ianto does, like he's not important enough to form opinions about, and  _god_  does that hurt—and directs that grin at him instead of the world at large.

"Hey, Yan," he says, because he's  _never_  said Ianto's name the right way. (Ianto just finds it endearing, though he should probably be insulted.) "What's up?"

Faced with Jack's warm, easy charm, Ianto feels every inch of the four years between them. Sucking in a quick breath for courage, he looks up several inches to meet Jack's eyes, swallows, and blurts out, "I know you're leaving, but are you coming back? To stay?"

There's a long moment of frozen silence. Then a look that Ianto's never seen on Jack's face before crosses his features like a warning flare. "Not if I can help it," Jack says sharply, coldly, and he's gone, vanished into the bank with equally sharp, cold steps.

Ianto's stomach, full of ice, sinks down around his knees somewhere. Blankly, he catalogues the emotions he'd recognized in Jack's expression.

Anger.

Impatience.

Annoyance.

 _Disgust_.

That's all the answer Ianto needs, really. There's nothing more to be said.

* * *

Because there don't need to be any more words between them, Ianto avoids Jack at the congratulatory-cum-goodbye party, keeping to the corners and skulking in the cover of the shadows as he watches Jack.

Jack, who is always beautiful and kind and personable, who laughs and smiles more than anyone else who Ianto knows.

Jack, who wants to leave this place more than he wants anything else in the whole world.

Ianto knows the feeling, can sympathize. He's aware that most would consider him an angsty teenager, and write off his feelings of isolation and rejection as typical of a boy his age, but Ianto also knows there's more to it than that.

He's seen what he wants most turn away from him. Right now, at this very moment, he watches it wave goodbye and saunter out the door into the night, duffle bag under one arm and vintage RAF greatcoat—a gift they all pooled their money to buy—draped over broad shoulders.

Jack doesn't look back.

Ianto decides, then and there, that he will not give Jack the chance to do the same thing again.

* * *

The next day, Jack is gone, and Ianto is sixteen. He packs his most useful belongings, clears out his bank accounts, and buys a bus ticket to London.

There's a hostel that will take him, a job opening at a local library, and enough distance to put Jack firmly behind him.

(He hopes so, at least, even knowing that it's more than likely in vain.)

* * *

**3.**

But, despite all of Ianto's convictions, all of his decisions, he can't control fate.

For four years and three months and some-odd days (because Ianto isn't about to admit he's so desperate that he knows the count right down to the  _hour and minutes_  level), Ianto manages to be a normal person. He works a steady job and takes night classes to finish school, takes his A-levels and then more night classes for a degree and copes with having his heart broken more or less by accident. And if he doesn't think about Jack bloody Harkness every second of those four years, it's only because he's usually exhausted to the point where he can't think at all.

But then the Head Archivist at the Torchwood Institute, where he works in the research library, notices his work ethic and decides Ianto would be best served in a place that  _challenges_  him, and has him transferred to a position as Researcher with a mobile science team.

And out of all the bloody people in the world, it's Jack Harkness who's their assigned pilot.

Really, when Ianto thinks about it, it's only natural. The Torchwood Institute is a major mostly-not-for-profit organization that possibly, depending on which Internet rumors one listens to, may or may not run the entire world from a shadow position. They have lots of money that comes from their patents, thousands of scientists and doctors studying everything imaginable in every corner of the world, and a fleet of private jets to get anywhere they're needed. There was always a high possibility that if Jack didn't go commercial or military with his flying, he'd end up at Torchwood.

It's just Ianto's bad luck to be assigned to his plane.

The third time happens something like this:

"Told you I'd set her down safely," Jack says, incredibly white teeth flashing in a broad grin.

Ianto is still a little green from the turbulence coming in, which is a good buffer from Jack's gorgeousness and charm, though both are usually overwhelming. So he settles for giving Jack a dark look and taking another gulp of seltzer water to settle his rebelling stomach.

(Ianto still loves Jack like someone who's lived in darkness all their life loves light; Jack still doesn't notice.)


	3. Torchwood: followup to lapis lazuli, witch!Ianto AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Follows lapis lazuli, so witch!Ianto AU.

Jack has been to Ianto's house before, but never much beyond the bedroom and the kitchen; before, theirs was a relationship that existed almost entirely between the sheets.

It's high time that changes, though.

This time, Jack actually looks around as he makes his way through the front hall of the small house, sunk into the edge of Coed-y-Felin Woods like a wary, wild thing in the face of Cardiff's sprawl. It's a house that is very much Ianto's, and very much lived in, for all he has a quiet, sterile apartment a few minutes' walk from the Plass. Jack knows without asking that the apartment was bought more for Lisa, who loved the city, than for Ianto, who is a wary, wild thing himself and far more suited to these poorly-tamed woods. The house is small but open, full of light and mirrors and clean, functional furniture that is positioned so cleverly it makes each space seem larger than it is. Everything is tidy, but not freakishly so, and there are plants everywhere, splashes of green and gold and purple and white that make everything else come alive.

Jack skirts the living room and the hallway he knows leads back to the bedroom, bathroom, and guest room, and passes through the kitchen, full of the smells of something rich with tomatoes and wine. The windows are open to the afternoon breeze, and the back door stands ajar. From outside there comes the soft, muffled rustle of bare footsteps on grass, smooth and gliding, and Jack steps out onto the porch to see Ianto in the center of the yard, bare-chested and breathing deeply, but evenly, with a narrow, elegant sword in one hand. It's a sight that stops Jack's breath in his chest, even before Ianto launches into a series of graceful, flowing turns and lunges, the blade a swift shimmer of silver before him, because Jack has seen so much of Ianto since their return from the Nevermore. He's seen sides to the quiet Welshman that he had never previously thought existed, and each new facet is a bright and shining thing in the tapestry of uncertainty and guarded expectation that has existed since the former Witch-King came and whisked them all away into a world Jack's senses tell him shouldn't exist.

This Ianto, here and now, is entirely new, and eminently desirable. He is elegant in all things, formidable always, but with a sword in his hand Ianto seems to lose a bit of his hard-won veneer of urbanity, seems to gain just a trace of the wildness that Jack saw when their quiet, wry butler faced down a mad warlock with nothing but a few scribbles and some pretty words.

Ianto is a man of refinement and reserve, right up until the moment that he isn't. There's a power flowing through his veins that Jack can't comprehend, something primal and fierce. When he looks—really, truly  _looks_  without fearing what he'll see—Jack can make out the witch trapped beneath the human skin, can see the lord of an ancient house locked inside a modern man's form. And now, like this, with sweat beading on his pale skin and a winter river's smooth, raging power in ever-graceful motion, what is usually shut away has come to the surface.

A final lunge and parry, a final turn and block, and then Ianto steps back, bringing the sword up before him and then flicking it out to the side in an oddly formal movement, like a dueler's salute. He holds there for a moment, breathing hard, and then turns to offer Jack a faint half-smile.

"Captain," he says, stooping to reclaim a simple leather sheath from the grass and then sliding the sword away. "Sorry. Talia thinks I'm getting rusty."

Jack has met Talia twice now, and he has a sneaking suspicion that whatever she thinks, regardless of factuality, becomes truth. She's like Rose…if Rose went and chemically bonded herself with a mother dragon.

But Talia is also the closest thing to a mother that Ianto's ever mentioned, so Jack very firmly shuts that remark away and instead drawls, "Only practicing with a sword, Ianto? What if your magic gets sloppy?"

He grins to show it's a joke, but judging by the raised brow he's getting, Ianto isn't impressed. Indeed, with a faint narrowing of his eyes, Ianto raises one hand and traces a circle in the air in silver light, then inscribes a ring of glowing symbols into the center. It hovers there for a moment, glittering like sun-struck glass and lightning, and then Ianto flicks his hand up, eyes falling on a tall, swaying sunflower near the edge of the grass.

"Shut tight the seven gates," he intones, and each word ripples in the air. "Beyond the Eighth Sea, fall to pieces."

For a moment it seems like there's no change. Then the circle winks out of existence, and with a ringing hum that sets Jack's teeth on edge, four walls of light shimmer into being around the sunflower, settle, and then slam inward as though sucked into a black hole.

When they vanish, there isn't even ash left within.


	4. Grimm: Cursed!Nick AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cursed!baby-Grimm!Nick is trapped in Aunt Marie's creepy old house on the coast. Monroe arrives to appraise the antique clocks, and meets what appears to be the ghost of a Grimm. It's not quite that simple, though.

The woman who knocks on Monroe's door at the incredibly civilized hour of eleven in the morning is very pretty. Her hair is red and her eyes are hazel, and the way Monroe's heart skips a beat can't entirely be attributed to the red pea coat she's wearing.

It's also not entirely the fault of the truly lovely skeleton clock she's carrying tucked under one arm.

"Yes?" Monroe asks politely, opening his door a little wider. She smells like rain, animals, and the sharp tang of medicine—human, though, entirely. "Can I help you?"

"You're Mr. Monroe, the clockmaker?" she asks in return, shifting a bit awkwardly. "I was told you take rare old clocks?"

That's straightforward enough. Monroe opens his door all the way and steps back. "Definitely, and if only they were all as nice as that beauty you've got there. For sale?"

The woman steps in, smile blooming. If she's pretty when she's solemn, she's absolutely stunning when she smiles. "It's a bribe to get you interested. There are several more like this, and some that look even older. I just don't know what to do with them." She shifts the clock to her hip and offers a hand. "I'm Juliette Richards."

"Just call me Monroe," Monroe returns, shaking hands. She's got a firm, no-nonsense grip and a steady gaze. And a wedding ring, which is a bit of a disappointment. "Cleaning house, are we?"

Something sad, but resigned, creeps into her gaze, and she quirks a half-smile at him. "It's kind of a long story. Do you have a minute?"

"For clocks like that one? I've got all the time in the world." Monroe gestures her towards the couch. "Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee?"

Juliette shakes her head as she takes a seat. "No, thanks. I just…" She trails off, but for once Monroe doesn't need social subtitles to get that this is a bit of a painful topic for her. He sucks in a breath and quickly takes the chair across from her, settling long limbs as gracefully as he can.

Instead of looking at him, Juliette plays with the simple gold band around her finger. "I was…engaged once before," she says after a moment. "Nearly ten years ago now. He was a detective here in Portland, and he inherited a house in Azalea Bay. Do you know it?"

Monroe does. It's about an hour's drive south, a sleepy coastal town with incredibly expensive real estate and lots of beautiful old houses on the cliffs overlooking the ocean. "Azalea Bay?" he repeats, leaning forward to get a better look at the clock as Juliette sets it on the table between them. "No wonder it's in such good condition. Family home, I take it? That's the best way to preserve pieces like this, keeping them in one place and —" It's only with extreme self-control that Monroe manages to cut off the ramble before it can pick up speed. He carefully bites his tongue, nods politely, and gestures for Juliette to continue.

Thankfully, Juliette just looks kindly amused. "Yes," she answers. "Nick's aunt Marie owned the house, even though she rarely stayed there, and she left it to him when she died. We used it as a vacation house." The sadness in her eyes darkens, and she bites her lip a little, playing with her ring again. "While we were up there one weekend, Nick disappeared. A…body was never found." She swallows and shakes her head. "Nick left everything to me, and I…can't. But my husband and I are moving to Seattle, and I don't want to just leave the house sitting there with all those antiques in it."

A ghosting touch over the skeleton clock, and then Juliette smiles at Monroe again, just briefly. "If you're willing to make the drive down there and spend time sorting through things, you can keep whatever catches your interest as payment. I just…want it to go to someone who will appreciate the history."


	5. Torchwood: Spock and Ianto are twins separated at birth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ianto and Spock are twins separated at birth, yet somehow both end up in Starfleet (no one knows Ianto's parentage), with Spock on _Enterprise_ and Ianto on _Torchwood_.

Vulcan is gone, as are all of the belongings that Spock remembers from his childhood, the little things that his mother kept.

(Human sentiment, his father always called it, but Spock had seen the way she handled each item, knew that each was attached to a memory and let her call that memory to the forefront of her mind more easily. Logic, really.)

But not everything is lost—his mother and father had kept an apartment on Earth, for their infrequent visits, and for all that it is dusty and sparsely furnished, it is where Spock goes as soon as he is released from his debriefing.

It smells like his mother, he thinks as he steps in, the door sliding shut behind him. Her touch is visible throughout the set of rooms—a painting on the wall, soft pillows on the sofa: things a Vulcan wouldn't indulge in normally, but that she had chosen to give the nearly empty quarters a feeling of home.

Spock's control is absolute. The fact that he stands in the doorway of what was once his parents' bedroom for a long while is not wavering, not human softness, no matter what the irritatingly emotional McCoy would say. His grief is manageable, acceptable in the face of his people's loss, and felt for more than one human woman, no matter her impact on his life. He ignores the throbbing in his chest, the tightness of his lungs, and steps toward the bureau that stands against the far wall.

Mechanically, swiftly, he packs away his mother's extra clothes, the scarves and hats that still hold traces of her favorite perfume. He carefully boxes up her antique paper books, her music chips, her PADDs with half-legible notes on obscure treaties and diplomats that Spock doesn't know. Sarek wants none of it, but Spock has already made arrangements for it to be shipped to his lodgings near the Academy.

(Sentiment, his father had called it again. Spock hadn't denied it.)

There is another PADD in the depths of bookcase, one specialized to hold important legal documents. Spock has never seen it before, but when he turns it on—for purposes of organization, so that he can know where to store it, and not curiosity, which is a very human trait—there is only a single file, marked with his date of birth and his mother's signature.

His hand does not shake when he opens it.

There is no logical reason for it to do so.

The first item in the file is a photograph. His mother lies in a bed, swathed in blankets, looking exhausted but very, very pleased. There is a dark-haired babe curled in her arms, almost overwhelmed by swaddling, and she beams down at him with a look that Spock knows very well. Sarek stands beside her, and Spock can read pleasure and relief in the slant of his brows, the crinkle of his eyes.

There is another babe curled in his arms, hair equally dark. But this child has his eyes open, looking straight at the viewer, and his eyes are a brilliantly pale blue.

The title at the top of the image reads ' _Our sons_ ,' and Spock suddenly, illogically, finds that he cannot breathe.

* * *

(Ianto Jones knows full well that he isn't entirely human. It's fairly obvious, given that his blood is green.)


	6. Saiyuki: Deaged!Sanzo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sanzo is turned into a child, and promptly develops a crush on Hakkai. The others are…confused. And freaked out. Just a little.

"Are you all right, Hakkai?"

Even with the inclusion of his name, it takes Hakkai a moment to realize that he's being addressed, and another to convince himself that his mind isn't playing tricks on him, that it's really  _Genjo Sanzo_  who just asked him that.

If the sudden, complete absence of squabbling to his left is any indication, he's not the only one who can't believe his ears.

"Fine, Sanzo," Hakkai finally manages, offering up his cheeriest smile even though the world feels like it's slipping sideways out from beneath his feet. He doesn't add "Why do you ask?" even though he desperately wants to, because he's got a fairly well-developed sense of self-preservation—well, as developed as it can be traveling with  _this_  group. He takes a careful step back, avoiding the corpse of the yokai that attacked them—fairly strong, fairly clever, the work of nearly twenty minutes to defeat—as he retreats. "And you?"

"Tch." Sanzo folds his hands into the sleeves of his robe and turns on his heel, stalking back towards the jeep without another word.

His gun isn't in evidence, and that's perhaps the most frightening thing of all.

"Man," Gojyo drawls after a long moment. "He said that? Where people could  _hear_  him? Hakkai, what did you do to him?"

"Perhaps Sanzo has finally adjusted to traveling with us, and…" Hakkai trails off under the flatly skeptical stares both Gojyo and Goku level at him, and then rubs the back of his head and chuckles a bit nervously. "Ah, well, yes, maybe not."

As one, all three of them glance back at the yokai's corpse, their looks all various shades of accusing. A part of Hakkai wants to laugh at the fact that their esteemed holy traveling partner has shown the faintest hint of human concern and their first reaction is to blame demon magic, but the rest of him knows that there's a very real chance that's exactly what's wrong. Amusing or no, Sanzo simply never shows concern. It's…well, Hakkai would say that it's not in his nature, were he being entirely frank.

Not that Sanzo can't be kind in his own angry, abrasive, asshole way, but—

Actually, that rather speaks for itself.

(A part of Hakkai remembers a sutra chanted in a lonely field, Sanzo's voice rising and falling with a cold, dark wind, the white of his robes and the gold of his hair and crown and the fierce, sharp violet of his eyes. It was a sutra for Cho Gonou and his continued life more than anything, far more than it was for the dead. "For the living," Sanzo had said, and sometimes Hakkai has to wonder just how much Sanzo really does understand about humanity and life and death, to be able to offer up these startling bits of wisdom that resonate so deeply in the soul.)

"Are you coming or not? Move your asses or I'll leave you here."

(And then other times he's entirely, stubbornly certain that it's just a fluke and nothing more.)

"That's mean!" Goku complains, even as he goes bounding towards Hakuryuu. "Sanzo!"

"Quiet, monkey," Sanzo orders, slouched low in the front seat with a cigarette already in his hand. "Quit screeching."

But the gun still isn't in evidence. Nor is the fan, for that matter.

Gojyo and Hakkai trade glances, though there isn't really anything they can do right now even if it  _is_ yokai magic. Then Gojyo huffs out a breath, stuffs his hands into his pockets, and shuffles to the back. "Move it, chimp. That's my seat."

Perhaps predictably, Goku bristles and launches an insult right back, and everything devolves from there. Hakkai sighs a little, but forces a smile, sliding behind the wheel and starting the engine. "There should be a town a few hours away," he offers, because Sanzo has started looking murderous, and his hand keeps twitching towards his sleeve. He's got either the gun or the fan in there, and at the moment Hakkai isn't entirely certain which he's hoping it is. "According to the map, it's fairly large. We can probably find an inn there."

Sanzo slumps even further in his seat, muttering a disgusted "Tch," which, really, is entirely understandable after the welcome they've gotten in the last few towns. Being the (in)famous exterminator of the insane yokai is all well and good—they haven't had to actually buy most of their supplies for a while—but the adoration that falls on Sanzo is exhausting, even though Hakkai is only on the periphery of it.

The promise of a bed after nearly a week sleeping on the hard ground must outweigh Sanzo's misanthropy, however, because the priest offers no protest. He simply closes his eyes, tilts his head forward, and appears to go to sleep. Hakkai is still somewhat in awe of his ability to do that; he doesn't think he'd even be able to pretend to sleep, what with Gojyo and Goku kicking seats and caterwauling in the back.

(Even though he'll never say it, sometimes Hakkai is glad when Sanzo's temper reaches the end of its rather short tether. He prides himself on his patience—or rather, his air of calm—but Goku and Gojyo can try even that at times.)

Swallowing a sigh and fixing his smile in place, Hakkai puts the jeep in gear and heads west, following the setting sun.

* * *

There is, indeed, an inn, and it's even a fairly nice one. Moreover, the people here seem to have little idea who Sanzo is beyond a paying guest, so they're able to book four rooms—a luxury, yes, but one that's sorely needed after six days in extremely close quarters—with little fuss. Despite the hour, Goku heads for the kitchens, and Gojyo heads out for the nearest bar, leaving Sanzo and Hakkai to their own devices.

"Would you be willing to share your paper?" Hakkai inquires politely, as they stand near the stairs and watch Gojyo's back disappear out the door. "I'll make some tea." It's a bit of a bribe, because Hakkai knows very well that Sanzo has a weakness for a perfectly brewed cup of green tea, but he's never been above fighting dirty.

Sanzo stands there silently for so long that Hakkai half-expects him to refuse; then the priest simply grunts and heads up to his room, white robes sweeping behind him.

It's the closest to an engraved invitation Hakkai's ever gotten, and he takes it gladly. For all his prickliness, Sanzo without the influence of their rowdier companions is surprisingly pleasant company.

Of course, Hakkai thinks wryly when the second section of the newspaper hits him in the chest as he walks through the door, it's still  _Sanzo_. That's more than enough to keep most people well in the distance.

* * *

It's…probably not entirely normal to have such strange dreams about one's traveling companions, but then, Hakkai's first real relationship was with his sister, so he can't much speak for normality. And Sanzo is beautiful for all his prickly sharpness, all bright golden hair and creamy pale skin and those strange, eerie eyes, like those of some ephemeral ghost. When he pushes off the top of his robe and lounges so easily in that tight black sleeveless shirt—

Well. Hakkai can't be entirely blamed if he gets  _ideas_ , can he? They're a long way from any kind of female companionship most times, and Sanzo, with his looks and lithe muscle and languorous grace, is probably the closest thing to a lovely woman Hakkai is likely to find when they're camping out in the wilderness.

Not that Hakkai will ever, ever tell Sanzo that—he'd find himself six feet under and full of holes before he could even put a period to that particular sentence.

* * *

Morning dawns bright and clear, and Hakkai rises with the sun, feeling inordinately refreshed by something as simple as a hot bath and a good sleep in a soft bed. Hakuryuu is equally cheerful as Hakkai loads the fruits of his early-morning trip to the store, and Hakkai pats him on the hood as he heads back in to rouse the others for breakfast.

As always, he starts with Gojyo, who's hardest—a cheery threat and a pail of ice water on hand do the trick well enough, though. Goku is easy in comparison, bolting out of bed at the mention of food and nearly knocking Gojyo over as the older man makes his bleary way down the stairs. Hakkai has to smother his chuckles at the sound of the fight that breaks out, even though he should probably go and stop it. It's good that they can be so energetic in the morning, though.

Usually, by this time, the last member of their party is in the hall as well, sucking on a cigarette, wrapped fully in his robes and looking as irritable as ever. Sanzo isn't a morning person, insofar as he's  _never_  particularly cheerful, regardless of the time of day, but he can certainly never be accused of being a late sleeper. In all likelihood, he's probably up before Hakkai.

But for once, there's no sound of stirring from the fourth room.

Hakkai frowns a little, trying to think if Sanzo was hurt yesterday and hiding it, but there were none of the usual signs if he was. Concern rising, Hakkai taps on the door and calls, "Sanzo? Are you all right?"

There's a very, very long pause. Hakkai is just bracing himself to kick the door down or something equally drastic when the lock clicks, the knob turns, and the door slowly creaks open.

Hakkai blinks, because there's a violet eye watching him with wary reserve, but it's…not quite in the right place. Sanzo is nearly his height, so their eyes should be about level. But this one is gazing up from somewhere around his elbow.

"Sanzo?" Hakkai asks, a little desperately now. Because he didn't hear  _anything_  last night, and after so long they all have hair-trigger instincts to any sort of suspicious activity, and—

"You…know Master Koumyou?" the owner of the eyes asks slowly. The door swings open a little further, and Hakkai barely manages to catch himself before he falls backwards from the sheer shock, because there's a  _child_  standing in Sanzo's room.

A child with hair the color of gold and eyes like amethysts, a composed expression just barely covering the nervousness beneath, and that's not an expression that Hakkai has ever seen on—

But then, this boy is probably just about nine years old, and Sanzo has had over a decade to perfect his poker face.

"Excuse me," Hakkai manages, and if he thought the world was slipping away under his feet when Sanzo was kind(ish), it's nothing at all compared to this. "Who…might you be?"

The boy, dressed in a spare robe that Sanzo carries which is far too large for him, folds his hands carefully in front of him and just as carefully inclines his head. "Koryuu," he says formally. "I'm Koryuu, disciple of Koumyou Sanzo."

"Oh, dear," is all Hakkai can say.

Purple eyes lift to regard him narrowly, and then the boy rolls them, just a little. "You don't know how I got here, either," Koryuu surmises, and that acidic bite to his voice is entirely Sanzo, if slightly mellowed. Or perhaps just not fully developed yet. "Wonderful."


	7. Torchwood: faerie!Ianto

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What if the creatures in Small Worlds weren't actually faeries at all? What if Ianto was a changeling child, a faerie reared in the human world?

Roundstone Wood is quiet in the moonlight, no human sounds to break the stillness. Not even Ianto's footsteps can be heard, but then, he's not exactly human himself.

He picks his way through the underbrush, carefully avoiding the clearly marked trails, and strides up a small hillock covered in verdant grass. There are two stones at the top, tall and square and overcome with moss, just enough space between them for someone slender to slip through. They bear no engravings made by the hand of man, nothing to set them apart beyond their placement and their age, but when Ianto pauses before them, he can hear the faintest strains of a cheery, eerie flute, pipes and drums and a merry fiddle, even though the wood is dark and still.

There are wildflowers growing around the stones' base, tiny dots of white and lavender, star-shaped and lovely in the gloom. Ianto leans down to brush his fingers over them and then straightens, takes a step forward, and slides between the standing stones. A ripple in the air, a whirl of something that smells like spring and feels like summer, and then he's through, tumbling out the other side into another world.

The fairy court is dancing there, in a twilight meadow studded here and there with more amethyst and ivory flowers, dozens of creatures that just barely pass as human at first glance. But there are subtle differences, little things that set them apart, like the way their bare feet hardly separate from the earth, skim the tops of the grasses even as they laugh and dance and spin, and their ears are delicate and pointed. The trees lean towards them and the stars dip lower, shine brighter. The music dips and weaves with their bodies, winds around forms that are not so much inhumanly graceful as they are graceful in a different way than humans could ever dream of being, like boughs in the wind or fish in the water or birds in the air. They're beautiful, so beautiful, and as Ianto looks at them his heart aches with a single thought.

_Home._

Laughter chimes, bright and clear, and then he's seized by the elbows, one elven figure on each side of him.

"Ianto!" cries the one on his left, with golden hair and green eyes, her smile wide and welcoming. "You're back already!"

Her twin, with black hair and the same eyes, leans in from the right and grins, his expression wicked. "We had a bet," he admits shamelessly. "Back within a year, and Rosemary and I win. After one and Sorrel got our bows."

"Rue, don't tell him that!" Rosemary protests, even as Ianto raises an imperious brow at both of them.

Rue simply laughs and wraps an arm around Ianto's shoulder, tugging him close for a hug. "We missed you," he murmurs, and any irritation Ianto might have felt vanishes like smoke.

"I missed you as well," he admits, returning the embrace, and then kissing Rosemary on the cheek with a smile. "The human world can be…tiring, at times."


	8. Avengers: Yinsen survives!AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ho Yinsen makes it out of Afghanistan and returns to America with Tony, and that changes everything.

When Rhodey finally finds Tony in the middle of the fucking desert, after far too many sleepless nights and endless days and  _nothing to show for it_ until Tony, as ever, made his own damn way out -

Well. When Rhodey finally finds Tony, when he finally receives word of an explosion of unknown origin and thinks only  _'There you are, buddy',_ Tony isn't alone.

There's a man with him, badly wounded but still alive, a thin and frail-looking Afghani with badly broken glasses and steel in his eyes. Tony's dragging him over the sand on a fractured piece of metal covered in the remains of a shirt, and Rhodey has never seen Tony look at anyone the way he does at this man. It's part anger and part grief and part worship and part utter, absolute trust. Rhodey's seen the first directed at many people, the second whenever someone mentions Maria Stark, the third sent towards Pepper's back whenever she's not looking, and the fourth only ever at those Tony keeps close—namely, Pepper, Happy, Obadiah, and Rhodey himself.

But for one person to inspire so much feeling in Tony—

That's something new.

"Him first," Tony says, when Rhodey tries to steer him towards a medic. He waves at the man. "Help Yinsen. I'm fine."

He's not, that arm is looking pretty bad and he's badly burned and probably suffering from heatstroke, but Rhodey sees the tightness around Tony's eyes whenever the—Yinsen, Tony calls him Yinsen—takes a rattling breath, and he directs the medic on.

Tony smiles at him, bright and thankful, and finally steps away from the makeshift stretcher. He's still watching Yinsen, though, darting glances at the wounded man whenever he thinks he can get away with it.

Rhodey bundles them all back into the helicopter and straps Tony in himself. He meets the gaze of the medic still working on Yinsen, and the soldier nods once. Only then does Rhodey allow himself to relax. The man should be fine, which is likely all Tony will care about. Letting out a slow breath of relief, Rhodey signals the pilot, who takes off.

Yinsen survives the flight back to the base, and Tony falls asleep on Rhodey's shoulder while they're waiting for him to get out of surgery. Rhodey just wraps an arm around Tony's shoulder and holds the genius close—and he  _is_ a genius for getting both of them out of that terrorist camp, and it really registers for Rhodey as it normally doesn't when Tony is just making weapons or winning science awards.

Killing is easy.

Surviving, that's the hard part.

* * *

Pepper is there when they deplane. Tony looks at her, so beautiful and utterly immaculate where she stands with Happy on the tarmac, and can't help but think of the Ten Rings camp again, of the filth and desperation and anger of those men. His good hand tightens on the back of Yinsen's wheelchair, and Yinsen looks back at him with the faintest upturn to his mouth. It's not a smile, more like a weary acknowledgement, and Tony returns it as best he can.

Yinsen has been withdrawn since Tony dragged him out of the camp half-alive, shielded him from the bullets and pulled him along when he took to the air for the first and last time in that suit.

Tony's had the entire trip back to think about it, and he already knows, deep in bones, that that suit was just the first.

 _Don't waste your life,_ Yinsen had told him when they had both thought he was dying. And now, back on solid ground with the one man who's ever made him want to change himself in a positive way, Tony doesn't intend to.


	9. Grimm: breakup H/C

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Breakup!fic, featuring Juliette moving out and Monroe taking a chance. (Goes AU midway through season 2.)

Nick comes home one night—late, because he's always late these days, and there hasn't been anything to pull him home early in what feels like a very long time—to find all of Juliette's things in boxes in the living room.

Somehow, it's not the surprise it should be.

Juliette herself is in the kitchen, on the phone to one of her friends, a fairly old one who lives in Beaverton, and who Nick has only met three times in the years they've been together. When she sees him, she bites her lip the way she always does when she's about to say something he won't like and ends the call.

"I'm sorry," is the first thing she says.

But Nick has felt the aching distance between them, and it's been there since long before Juliette woke up with no memory of him. He still remembers Aunt Marie telling him to let Juliette go, and maybe that would have been a kinder thing to do back then, before all of this came to a head with her as the innocent victim caught in the crossfire.

"It's all right," he answers, smiling a little, because it  _hurts,_ she's  _leaving,_ but at the same time it doesn't hurt nearly as much as it likely should. This has probably been a long time coming, and he just hasn't let himself see it. He tucks his hands into his pockets for want of anything else to do with them, and wishes suddenly, irrationally, that he could call his mother. "I—do you need help? With moving?"

Juliette smiles back, and the relief in her face hurts more than anything else. "No," she says softly. "Beth will be by tomorrow. It's a longer commute, but..."

 _But it will mean I won't have to stay here anymore,_ she doesn't say, though the words linger in the air regardless.  _Where you're a stranger and I'm always missing that last piece to the puzzle, and we never fit quite right._

"There's pasta?" she says after a moment, a careful question more than an offer, but her eyes, always her most expressive feature, are entirely conflicted.

Nick remembers that attempt at dinner, where they were both...happy, more or less, but he still knew her and she had no idea who he was, and it simply didn't work. He forces a smile and steps back. "Sorry, but I was just stopping by to get some paperwork," he lies. "This case is..."

They both pretend that he's not entirely obvious, that Juliette isn't familiar enough with his routine by now to know that he was home for the night. "Oh," is all she says, ducking her head a bit as she turns away. "Good luck, then."

It feels like there should be  _something_ here, one last kiss in farewell, at very least a hug or a touch or  _something,_ but the space for that has vanished along with Juliette's memories, with Nick's life as a normal detective. He's a Grimm and she has amnesia, and Aunt Marie was right. Nick can't do this anymore, not to himself and not to her.

"Thanks," he manages after a moment. "Good night, Juliette."

"Good night," she whispers, and Nick gathers up his jacket and leaves, letting the door fall softly shut behind him.

It's not quite the last thing they ever say to each other, but it's close.

* * *

He sleeps in the trailer, showers at the gym, dresses in his spare clothes, and brushes Hank off when he asks what's happened. They're both on desk work for now, writing up the Craig Ferron case, and it's easy, mindless work.

Nick wishes it wasn't.

There's something inside him that he's felt before, something a little dark and a little terrifying and very much a predator. It wants shadows, a hunt, a chase, a bit of blood and the satisfaction of a survival that's the same as a victory in the end. It's the Grimm in him, Nick thinks, and wonders at that, because it's not like the blutbad side of Monroe or any of the other Wesen he knows. It's not something that only comes out when he's startled or angry or facing another of his kind. It's always there, always buried just under his skin and watching hungrily.

Or maybe, he thinks, a little wry, it's  _exactly_ like all of the Wesen he knows.

That is, perhaps, a comforting thought when it shouldn't be, but Nick takes solace in it nevertheless. It's nice to have one positive thought while attempting not to drown in all the rest—thoughts of his father and his mother's best friend, killed because she was a Grimm; Farley Colt and Aunt Marie, and how they were together, regardless of the fact that he was a Steinadler, but separated when she had to take Nick in; Juliette and her anger, twice over, that Nick wouldn't tell her something there was no logical way she could believe.

Maybe Grimms are best served keeping to their own kind, regardless of how few of them there are.

* * *

As soon as the day is over and the last report is filed—full of slightly vague wording to cover up anything Wesen-related, but not enough to draw suspicion—Nick leaves, waving away Hank's suggestion of beer and pizza in favor of heading for his car, the bag of weaponry inside, and an empty forest clearing with plenty of honeydew targets to distract him, in that order.

It seems like a certain ironic kind of fate that a Reaper finds him there.

* * *

"Still got that shovel?" Nick asks as soon as Monroe has the door open.

Monroe stares at him for a long moment, then lets the door swing the rest of the way open and sighs. "Come on," he mutters, "you're getting blood all over the porch. What was it this time?"


	10. Yami no Matsuei: Hisoka/Tsuzuki

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five people Hisoka was jealous of, and one time he realized he didn't have to be.

**1\. Tatsumi**

Jealousy is not an emotion with which Hisoka has much experience.

He knows it in himself of course - empathy is at least that useful, after all. But it's...strange.

Tsuzuki and Tatsumi have always been fairly close. They gravitate towards each other, orbit each other regardless of their shared past or current grievances. Hisoka watches them around the office, unable to help himself. He remembers the grief on Tatsumi's face, the grief in his soul, as he spoke of the end of their partnership. It was deep and tearing, impossibly endless, and something in Tsuzuki had echoed it as he ran away.

But he also remembers the quiet, boundless joy in Tatsumi's heart at the girl's - Luka's - softly whispered words of love to his book-self. Hisoka can't bring himself to forget that those characters were  _them,_ in every way that matters.

It twinges, a bit, that his own character had nothing at all to do with Tsuzuki/Luka - just a plot-point, a roadblock on the way to the end of the story.

He watches them in the office, leaning in close with their heads bent together, and can't make himself read them.

He'll never admit that he's scared of what he'll learn if he does.

It makes Hisoka angry, too, because Tatsumi  _abandoned_ Tsuzuki when he really needed him, and that's...well. Still, Tsuzuki is more stable now, and for all that Tatsumi has offered Hisoka his blessing as far as their partnership is concerned, Hisoka can't stop wondering if Tatsumi is interested in...something different than a working partnership.

And Tsuzuki...he watches Tatsumi with large, wide eyes and a desperate hope bubbling inside of him. He laughs and smiles and thanks Tatsumi shyly when the secretary brings him boxes of pastries or cups of tea, the gesture always covered by bluster or excuses but full of sickeningly sweet earnestness nevertheless.

It's...well. Not disgusting, not exactly, but Hisoka wants to think it is. One of the problems with being an empath, though, is that it's ridiculously hard to lie to himself.

(That means that when Hisoka slinks into one of Tsuzuki's favorite bakeries one day, a very large portion of his paycheck in hand, he can't fool himself that he's in there for any reason but to find a gift box that will compete with the ones Tatsumi has been bringing. It's...disheartening.)

Hisoka has no right to his feelings, either, and that just makes him more frustrated.

* * *

**2\. Muraki**

It's ridiculous and idiotic and a little twisted to be jealous of the way Muraki leans close to Tsuzuki, deep within his personal space, and strokes cold fingertips down his cheek. Ridiculous and idiotic and a little twisted that Hisoka doesn't feel better even when Tsuzuki flinches back and tries to twist away.

Hisoka is jealous, regardless.

Muraki touches Tsuzuki like breathing, but with an edge of greed. He  _wants,_ and when they're all in a room together Hisoka is a little bit terrified that what he's feeling - for Tsuzuki, about Tsuzuki,  _because of_ Tsuzuki - is all just some sick reflection of the open, grasping, desperate avarice that twists the blackened remains of Muraki's heart whenever he lays eyes on Tsuzuki.

But, when Muraki is gone, when the bastard has pulled his latest vanishing act and crawled back under whatever slimy, dank rock first birthed him, Hisoka admits that writing off the blame for this knot of feelings in his chest isn't quite so easy.

Because Muraki wants to  _possess_ Tsuzuki, wants the shinigami stretched out in his bed and feeding his immortal life and a dozen other things that make Hisoka's head pound with a mix of fury and disgust, because Muraki wants to take them by  _force._  That's the fun part for him. On the other hand, Hisoka wants to be the barrier between Tsuzuki and the world that is far too harsh for his soft heart. He wants to wrap Tsuzuki up in cotton and silk and lay him on a bed of pillows somewhere with as much chocolate as he can eat and no reason to ever despair again.

Tsuzuki is still an idiot, most certainly, but Hisoka wants him anyway. Not regardless of the fact, but  _including_ those idiotic tendencies.

It's nearly enough to send Hisoka scurrying for Watari, to check for potions or poisons or other mind-altering substances. Maybe even just blanket insanity.

But whether he's been hit over the head too many times or not, Hisoka's blood still boils whenever Muraki reaches out and touches Tsuzuki, lays hands on him or leans a bit too close or whispers disgusting things in low, intimate voices that make Hisoka want to separate his head from his body even more than normal.

It's...not pleasant, perhaps, but it's manageable.

* * *

**3\. Watari**

Watari is...handsy.

It's aggravating.

And his constant quest to turn Tsuzuki into a girl does nothing to endear him to Hisoka. It's not like Tsuzuki isn't already prettier than -

Well. Anyway.

And Tsuzuki keeps  _trusting_ the mad scientist responsible for a good portion of their body-swapping or love potion or truth serum incidents, even though it  _never ends well_ and Hisoka seems to be the  _only one who sees it._

Really, it's maddening.

And then Watari goes and throws himself at Tsuzuki whenever they come back from a mission, drapes himself over him whenever they're in the lab, flops all over him like some kind of  _damned octopus_ whenever they're in close proximity.

But if Hisoka has any urges to rip Watari's wandering hands right the hell off his body, it doesn't matter. His control is iron-clad and his will is second to none.

Hisoka growls a little under his breath as Watari presents Tsuzuki with his latest scheme disguised as an innocent cake and the moron just _takes it,_ but that's fine. He's in control. He's most certainly  _not_ imagining Watari with all that long blond hair going up in flames.

That would just be petty.

* * *

**4\. The Count**

As far as looks go, Hisoka can admit without compunction that Tsuzuki is stunning. Beautiful. Violet eyes and skin like milk and wild, silky black hair that's never quite tamed. And then there's his personality - sweet and gentle and kind, too kind for the world they live in, all combined with an edge of danger and power and crystalline fragility, like a dagger made of broken glass. It's...addicting. People look at him and want to wrap him up somewhere safe even as their hearts start pounding and their blood starts pumping with the bone-deep recognition of _dangerpredatorrunhide._

The dichotomy of Tsuzuki is just as fascinating as his beauty, and while Hisoka knows he himself is, unfortunately, also appealing to the eye, he will never quite have Tsuzuki's presence.

Simply put, Tsuzuki is exquisite.

But does everyone really have to be so damned  _clingy_ about it?


End file.
